


We Throw Our Shadows Down

by ionik



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Adopted Children, Children, Gen, Parenthood, Sleepy Bois Inc as Family, dtao3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:40:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28486227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ionik/pseuds/ionik
Summary: On Christmas Eve when Phil is thirty-eight, his oldest son, hardly an adult himself, shows up despondent on the doorstep of his childhood home with a bundle of fabric resting on one arm, soft orange hair peeking out.A collection of Christmases in the SBI family, centered on Phil being the best dad, Wilbur becoming a father, and Fundy growing up.
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Comments: 7
Kudos: 66





	We Throw Our Shadows Down

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Windows by Angel Olsen
> 
> First fic I'm writing in a year. I love the SBI dynamic so much, and I love the community loads.

~~ 38 ~~

On Christmas Eve when Phil is thirty-eight, his oldest son, hardly an adult himself, shows up on the doorstep of his childhood home with a tattered duffle bag in one hand and a bundle of threadbare fabric resting in the other, eyes shimmering with dozens of miniscule water crystals that cling to the dark lashes and melt against sallow skin.

It feels as if he’s staring into a dark mirror, the tint discoloring his blonde hair with dusky tones and warping his features into an erroneous ghost of what used to be. Although he will make this welcome warmer than what his memory is putting forward, he remembers trudging through the snow in the biting cold with nowhere else to go, knocking on a hard wooden door with frost-covered, reddened hands.

Ironic, how history repeats itself.

A handful of heartbeats and cold breaths later, the door has been closed once more to block out the frigid winds, the snow and the chill threatening to invade the enfolding atmosphere inside the home. Afraid to leak out into and be carried away by the offensive storm, the outflowing comfort of the family retreats back to the secure shelter within the sturdy walls, filled with years’ worth of children’s play and laughter and stained with the labour and unrest of youth.

“Techno,” Phil calls.

In the intimate quiet of the living room, stillness broken by the muffled tapping of fingers on a dimly-lighting screen and plastic bricks clicking against one another, Phil catches the attention of the teenager on the gentle, homey couch. The soft fabric of the pillows cushion his sleepy frame, dark textile providing a contrast to the bright pink hair resting on it, arranged neatly underneath well-worn black headphones. The colored strands of his hair flutter across the muted surface as Techno’s head cants in Phil’s direction, as he devotes his attention to him.

Unsure of how to benevolently coddle the words, Phil cuts to the bone.

“Your brother’s home.”

Confused, Techno tilts his head and flicks his gaze towards Tommy. Then he looks in the direction of the hallway, catches a glimpse of brown hair and familiar outerwear, and apprehension settles on his face.

“He’s here?”

Techno carefully places his tablet on the table and uncrosses his legs. Phil nods kindly and steps away from the doorway, providing a direction for the teen to move, wishing the reunion of his sons to progress untroubled, without the pain so often fostered by festering wounds deserted, coerced to heal without aid.

The suspense between them is scattered by Tommy barging past Phil, having left his hastily built brick tower behind in favour of greeting his oldest brother with the enthusiasm only an 8-year-old possesses.

“Wilbur!”

Techno winces. Phil mirrors the movement. The fragile moment crackles and burns to the lapping flames of Tommy’s young heart and pure intentions.

Despite the backdrop of regret and concern, Phil’s happy in a way. Happy that Tommy has escaped the suffocating grasp of dredged-up errs and can break the tension created by misunderstandings and miscommunication. He’s happy that Techno at least seems amenable to the idea of reconciliation, that he seems more assured than defeatist. And most of all, he’s happy that Wilbur feels safe enough to return to him in a time of fear and fickleness, that he can provide a shelter for his boys that will remain unwavering despite the tidal waves rolling in from the sea, desperate to throw them all overboard.

This house has lent itself to being a vessel for oceans of trauma and attempted recovery. Phil does his best to tread water through every breathing moment, keeping his boys afloat even when facing the frightening battle of internal storms. They are all their own fair share of fucked up, so the stability of an unfaltering refuge from the world’s cruelty is what Phil has worked for all these years, reassuring his sons that they deserve love and care, that they always have a home with him. Despite not knowing anything about the immediate or remote future, what Wilbur needs, how he came to be in whatever situation he is in, Phil takes joy and pride in his son returning to him in time of need, even if he laments the circumstances.

Techno rises from the couch and joins him, and he turns around to look at Tommy’s spindly form clutching onto thin legs. The gaunt frame of Wilbur is slightly hunched over, burdened by the weight of his belongings and the tilted smile plastered across his face.

He nudges the shoulder of the hesitant boy by his side, encouraging Techno to join the embrace. With unsteady hands, Phil pens a note against the door frame next to him, scrawling on the slip of paper he holds up next to pencil marks on the door frame, marks that document the unyielding passage of time through the steady growth of children.

Interrupting his boys in their reconciliation, he catches the attention of Techno once more and hands him the folded message, tells him to go to the shop, to give the written request to the owner. She’s a friend, he explains, someone who can help them tonight.

“Bring Tommy too,” Phil tacks on. “Go straight there and stick together.”

He recognises the distant look in Wilbur’s eyes and softly pushes him in the direction of the couch, away from the fuss in the entryway. He leaves almost robotically, clutching the bundle of fabric in his arm tighter as he bumps past a confused-looking Tommy.

“Wilbur will be alright,” Phil assures his youngest son, crouching down in front of him to help get his shoes on. Tommy focuses wide eyes on his dad, showing fear and concern with the pure candor of a child.

“Be nice to your brother,” he says to both of them. Boots on, Tommy shuffles his feet and leans on Phil to try to glimpse Wilbur over his shoulder, but Techno takes Tommy’s hand and he grips it back, apprehensively accepting the comfort.

Phil looks at his two youngest sons, all bundled up to protect them from the biting, intrusive cold outside, and takes a deep, unsettled breath. He smiles, crooked, nodding at them to go, tells them to be back shortly. And when they walk down the stairs to the townhouse, gloves hands swinging between a tall and a short figure, he waves once, twice, and pushes the door closed once more.

The wood is cool against his forehead. He can hear his oldest son’s soft, hitching breaths emanate from the room behind him.

“Wilbur will be alright,” he whispers.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> I am definitely continuing this. Feel free to leave kudos and comments, they're always appreciated!


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